


Custom Job

by Mikey (mikes_grrl)



Category: The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, First Time, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-14
Updated: 2013-04-14
Packaged: 2017-12-08 12:21:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 12,316
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/761255
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mikes_grrl/pseuds/Mikey
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Clint was eleven the first time he helped Barney with a grand theft auto...</i>
</p><p>Wherein Clint learns to love archery, cars, and a dangerous, mysterious guy possibly named Phil who might work for the Russian mob but probably doesn't.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Wooooooo HAREM FIC! For those wondering, this refers to a group of us on twitter who do a lot of squeeing about fandoms like Avengers. We throw plot bunnies at each other like baseballs, and fic happens. Like this! Mechanic-AU which was supposed to be, oh, 3k words of Clint walking around all sweaty and greased up. You know what I mean. Instead you get 12k of plot. MY LIFE WHAT IS THIS????

Clint was eleven the first time he helped Barney with a GTA. Barney showed him how to hot wire it, park it in an abandoned warehouse, strip the expensive parts and box them up to store in the back of a rented van. Trickshot had been the one who rented the van for them, so Clint knew whose idea it was even though Barney and Clint were the only ones getting their hands dirty. They drove the van to where Trickshot was waiting, and he paid them both in cash (Clint got $25 whole dollars to himself, he nearly fainted on the spot) before driving off with the goods to do who knew what. Clint didn't care. He had cold, hard cash to spend on anything he wanted and that was as close to a God-given miracle as anything that had happened in his short life up to that point. 

Barney grinned at him, slapped him on the shoulder with "Good job, kid," and it was officially Clint's best day ever. 

Clint was the best archer anyone in the circus had seen, but he wasn't an idiot. Being good with a bow and arrow was not exactly a job skill that was in demand outside of the circus, so he knew his choices were to: 1) somehow track down his birth certificate, somehow get a GED and then somehow join the Army; or 2) anything else. 

Option 2 was easier, and with Barney's help, became pretty lucrative. It also revealed Clint's natural affinity for cars -- their engines, their wiring, their bodies, their life blood. Clint quickly became the circus's official mechanic as well as sharp shooter. For a few years, everything seemed perfect for Clint, shooting arrows and working on (or stripping) cars and making good (if illegal) money. His brother was proud of him and Trickshot let them do what they wanted and Clint figured he'd die a gear-head, car-thieving carny. He even developed a reputation among the car thieves and low-life they hung with for bringing any car they brought him to life. He had talent and passion and sometimes toyed with the idea of going legit with cars by getting a job with a garage, although Barney always talked him down from the ledge.

Then when Clint was 23, Trickshot landed in hot water with a Russian mob boss named Grigory in some fly-over mid-western city that never expected the Russian mafia. Trickshot tried to finger Barney for the deal gone wrong and Barney barely escaped with his skin (literally -- the Russians did not fuck around). Clint solved everyone's problems by burying an arrow in Trickshot's empty, traitorous heart. The mob boss, (who had been a regular of Clint's car-customizing work when the circus came through town) took Clint's actions as a personal favor after it was revealed that Trickshot had been short-changing the guy for years. Grigory hired Barney as an enforcer and offered Clint his own garage, full deed, as long as he personally worked on the mob boss's own collection of cars pro grata. 

Hawkeye's Auto Body Shop was born.  



	2. Seven Years Later

The new guy wasn't Russian, although his girl was. She was a red-head and hot tempered, and did not like waiting around the garage while Clint's boys did a quick oil change (and tire swap, with no questions asked about the streaks of blood on the sidewalls). She yelled at the new guy then went outside to smoke about a dozen cigarettes like all the Russian girls did. 

The guy stood around and carefully watched what Clint's crew did, both for his sedan and everything else. He had sharp, cold eyes and moved like a man who knew how to kill, his body lean but not thin and his muscles firm without being bulky under his crisp, tailored dark suit. He was attractive in a way that Clint had shoved aside a long time ago, because the Russians put up with a lot--violence, drugs, tattoos, adultery--but not homosexuality, and Clint liked his balls attached to his body. 

"Your girl just get in?" Clint asked the guy. 

He looked Clint over with a quick, assessing gaze and then nodded. "She's still...adjusting."

"I hear you, man. Don't worry, she'll figure things out quickly. They always do." Clint had seen enough women brought over from the "Motherland" to know; after a few months they settled in to their arranged marriages and started popping out kids and shopping at the mall every afternoon. A few tried to run; they never got far. He stood next to the guy, who seemed to have some kind of military bearing. Clint's guess was that he was a former special-ops merc that the Russians had hired overseas and brought home for a job well done. The girl had probably been part of the deal. 

"Clint Barton. I own the place." Clint shoved his hand at the guy. 

"Phil McPherson." Phil shook his hand, and Clint noted the very, very slight Irish lilt to his voice then. Clint held back a grin, figuring Phil had probably asked for a red-head to remind him of his homeland. 

"You're new yourself."

"Around here, yes." 

Clint nodded, appreciating a man who could say a lot with so few words. His attention was grabbed when Barney's flashy maroon Caddie Escalade pulled up to the bay doors, blocking two of them. Clint groaned. 

"Fuck's sake, Barney, don't block the doors!" Clint yelled as his brother eeled out of the SUV. 

"Shut it, birdie. I'm here for Phil." 

Phil straightened up, the light bulb in his mind going off almost visibly. "Barton. You're brothers?" He glanced at Clint, who nodded.

"Don't judge me by the company I keep, my friend." 

"You're a god-damn mechanic, birdie, don't get high and mighty on my ass." Barney shoved Clint, who didn't move an inch. Barney was still taller than Clint, but it was Clint who had filled out with muscles while Barney turned lean, lanky, and soft in the middle. Beating people up and whoring around had not done Barney's physique many favors. "Phil, Grigory wants to see you, pronto."

"My car is still up high." Phil pointed at where the tire change was ongoing. "But I can ride with you, if necessary."

"Nah, man, wait until your wheels are done. Just head straight there from here. He wants--" Barney's eyes flicked over at Clint, then back to Phil. "He wants an update."

Phil nodded thoughtfully. "Can you take Natasha back to my place, then? I'd rather not have her tagging along on...business."

Clint rolled his eyes. It wasn't as if he didn't know what business they were in. However, letting any hot girl ride in Barney's Escalade was a bad idea, whether Phil knew it or not, so Clint spoke up before Barney could even react. 

"That's what the company transportation van is for. I'll have Teddy drive her home for you, safe and sound. All part of the service." Clint bowed theatrically while Barney glared at him and Phil looked between them with dawning comprehension. Clint had to admire the guy, he didn't miss a damn thing. Flicking Clint off, Barney loped back to his car and peeled rubber driving away. Phil looked after him speculatively, but did not ask, which was another point in his favor.

Teddy, a sweet tempered dedushka, charmed Natasha with kind words in her native Russian that had her both rolling her eyes and smiling coyly. Phil gave Clint his own eyeroll while Natasha's back was turned, which proved just how smart he was (those Russian girls had claws, Clint knew that from personal and up close experience). 

Clint was called off to mediate a fight between Sammy and a timing belt, and by the time he was done Phil had already taken off. Clint tried not to be too disappointed in that; those kinds of feelings were dangerous to humor, and if nothing else Clint's sense of self-preservation was very well developed.


	3. Chapter 3

Phil showed up regularly to have his car fixed for minor body work (dents, scratches, cracked headlights, and the occasional totally legit oil change) and would always stand near the car, eyes sharp. He wasn't overtly threatening but Sammy refused to work on his car and both Alexi and Spartak got so nervous under Phil's quiet gaze that they started dropping tools. Clint wasn't about to let his shop's reputation skid into the gutter because some hired gun gave his guys a case of the nerves, so Clint stepped in and started doing the work himself. 

"Here," Phil said, holding out a cup of coffee from the coffee shop across the street. Clint was hammering a wheel-well back into shape so they could get the damn ruined tire out to change it. Whatever (whomever) Phil had crashed into had been very, very unyielding. Clint took it the steaming cup of ambrosia, surprised that Phil had left long enough to go get them coffee. Phil smiled, and it almost looked sweet on his boyish face. "I took the liberty of sending Sammy out for us. I hope you don't mind."

"Nah, works for me. You can boss my guys around as much as you like, hell they'd probably listen more than they do to me." Clint held the cup with reverent hands and sniffed deeply. "Man oh man, love their brew over there. Thanks."

Phil raised his cup in salute. He continued to stand nearby while Clint bullied the car body into giving up the tire, then wrenched it off and handed it to Alexi to change out. He was sweating by then, so unzipped the top of his coveralls and let it drop, tying the arms around his waist. He worked in a tank top enough that no one looked twice, except Phil. Clint glanced up to see Phil gaping at his body, but closing down quickly. Clint smirked for a second, enjoying the attention despite himself. Phil caught Clint's eyes and they stared at each other, both knowing that Phil had just checked Clint out and that Clint had been amused (and possibly turned on) by it. 

Dangerous waters to tread, for two "outsiders" who worked for the Russians. Clint gave Phil a small shake of his head. Phil nodded as he returned his attention to his coffee, and they both went on as if nothing had happened.

After that, though, Phil was quietly in Clint's space more often, under the guise of handing off or holding his coffee or checking the work or checking for _something_ which he never could explain outside of base paranoia. Clint couldn't blame the guy; he was Irish ex-merc who had sold his soul to the Russians for a nice car, a place to call home and a hot red-headed wife. Paranoia was the only sensible reaction, as far as Clint could tell. Clint certainly wasn't arguing with having Phil in his space, no matter the excuse.


	4. Chapter 4

"That asshole's trying to muscle in on my territory," Barney snarled over breakfast. They met every Thursday morning at the diner down the road from the shop, a tradition they had started before the shop had even opened, back when they were both high on the thought of _belonging_ somewhere and being something other than (better than) carnies. 

"Taras?"

"That punk? Nah. The Irish."

"Phil?" Clint poured more maple syrup on his pancakes.

"Yeah. Man, he thinks he's hot shit. I got a thing or two to tell him."

"Leave off, Barney. The man's trouble, but I don't think he wants your job."

"What the fuck do you know, anyway?"

"He hangs around the shop when I work on his car. We talk a little. Doesn't strike me as a guy with much ambition. He just wants to do his job and go home to fuck his wife."

"Who wouldn't? That girl is smokin'." Barney bounced in his seat like a kid. "A waste to give her to an old dude like that." 

Clint put down his silverware. "What the fuck are you up to, Barney?"

Barney looked up at him, his guilty expression gone in a flash but not fast enough.

"Don't. Whatever it is, don't. You know these Russians, Barney. You know _Grigory_. And we don't know shit about the Irish, not enough for you to take him on."

"I know more than you think I do," Barney growled, returning to his food. 

Clint had long ago realized that, perversely, he was the smart one. Barney was not stupid but he was nowhere near as clever as he thought he was. Mostly he was just lucky, but Clint knew that wouldn't last forever. He just hoped that Barney had sense enough not to try Trickshot's game, because if it came down to a choice between Barney and Grigory, only a fool would bet against the house. 

"Promise me, Barney. You're my brother, you promise me right now you aren't going to do anything stupid!" 

"Geeze, chill out. I promise. No doing anything stupid. Hey, you done with the syrup?"

Clint passed over the jug of syrup as his stomach clinched into knots.


	5. Chapter 5

In the same way Barney believed he was smarter than he actually was, he also believed Clint was stupid. Most of the time that opinion surfaced during disagreements about politics or cars, and Clint just waved it off as Barney being an annoying asshole. This time, however, Clint was glad to be underestimated.

From long training in a bad home life and then in the circus and then as a car thief, Clint knew how to wait, watch, and spot patterns. Over the following two weeks he kept an eye on the flow of cars and people in and around his garage. He was settled deep in the heart of "Little Moscow", a section of town that had been home to Russian immigrants since the 1970s, and it put him in the perfect place to note who was active and who wasn't. When the gossipy, pretty wives came in for an unnecessary oil change and tried to flirt with Clint as they all did, he charmed them with bad coffee and his near-fluent Russian until they gave up secrets they didn't know they had. Clint found out who was "out of town" (in the slammer) and who was "away on business" (actually away on business), as well as tidbits of what constituted office politics in the Russian mafia.

A picture was starting to form, and it was giving Clint a migraine. 

There was another player in the game, some organization from "back home" that no one knew anything about but had more on the agenda than money laundering. Grigory was working with them, but apparently against his will—they had something on him that was big and scary enough to make the most powerful crime boss in the tri-state area go against his own interests. If Clint was a betting man, he would have laid money down on the mysterious organization taking Grigory out soon. 

That was all surprising but not worrisome. What bothered Clint was the way Phil was shaping up to be the fall guy, and how many strings Barney was pulling. Barney threaded in and out of every conversation Clint had with people, whether they knew it or not. Clint knew Barney was at least smart enough not to think he could take over the Russian mob, but Clint also knew that Barney was stupid enough to back a legitimate challenger to Grigory if he thought it would pull him up the ranks after the firefight was over. 

Sometimes Clint wondered why in the hell _The Godfather_ was his favorite movie as a teenager. 

He waited a few more days, but nothing came up that changed his conclusions. He even milked Barney for information during their weekly breakfast, and he actually got confirmation of a few suspicions that way, although Barney was determined to play his cards close to his chest. He probably thought it was to protect Clint, which was almost naïve of him. If Grigory thought Barney had turned on him, he wouldn't stop with just killing _one_ of the Barton brothers. Clint knew his life was on the line as much as Barney's. Or Phil's. 

Phil showed up a couple of times for minor things, and Clint looked forward to that a little too much. The guy was smart and had a dry sense of humor when you dug for it, and often they would banter about seemingly nothing while Clint worked on the car. Phil was always stylish in a tailored if unassuming dark suit, professional in appearance and polite in manners, but he moved with precision and he was strong. When one of the wheels fell off a car that Sammy was working on one bay over, Phil calmly turned around and caught nearly sixty pounds of bouncing tire and rim without a sound. Sammy had stared at him wide eyed, and even Clint was struck dumb for a moment. 

Phil eased the wheel onto the ground. "Didn't want it to hit my car," he explained, actually looking slightly embarrassed about it. Sammy sidled up and snatched the wheel, rolling it away quickly. Clint wanted to stare at Phil for a long time, but the heat that pooled in his groin was going to have to wait for a very private shower later so he got back to work.

If he took to always wearing a beat-up, too-small tank top whenever Phil was around, well, no one could ever claim that Clint "Hawkeye" Barton was shy about his blessings.


	6. Chapter 6

Phil's car got towed in one morning with a trashed bumper and a broken windshield, and Clint suspected the dark smear over the hood was not mud. The radiator had taken the brunt of the collision, so it was going to be long job with several guys on it. 

Because Phil made it clear he was not leaving without his car.

"Man, I can't even guarantee we'll have a replacement bumper in before close," Clint explained as Alexi wrestled the mangled body part off the car. "Fixing the radiator will take less time, honestly. But the bumper? Can't guarantee that." 

"Do the best you can," Phil said mildly, which Clint took to mean "do it or I'll cut your toes off, one by one, while you scream." Clint went to his office and yelled at his parts distributor until the guy just took his bribe already to get the fucking bumper there before close. Clint knew he was going to be working late and under pressure (specifically, under Phil's watchful eyes) to get the car put together. Part of him really did not mind that idea at all.

As the day wore on and the car was slowly pieced back together, Phil stood around as usual in his suit, drinking the coffee that Clint sent Sammy to buy next door and looking perfectly content to stand guard the whole time. At one point his hot-headed red-head showed up, pissy and annoyed that Phil was probably going to be home late. She threw Clint a few assessing looks before getting into her little roadster and driving off with as much attitude as a firecracker like her could give. 

Phil sighed. "Married life is not quite what I thought it would be."

"Don't see me signing up for it," Clint grinned. He was up to his elbows in grease and his knuckles were bloodied from fighting the car's frame, which had not wanted to let go of the radiator. Alexi tsk-tsked, his head down deep under the hood. 

"You do not know good home until it has wife in it," he said in his broken English. "My niece, she is perfect for you, Hawkeye. Good cook, broad hips."

"Stop, just stop right there, Alexi, and get back to your damn job." Clint slapped him with one of the shop rags. He glanced up and caught Phil's amused expression, his eyes nearly twinkling with delight. Something about that look decided it for Clint, because whatever else Phil McPherson might be, he was at heart a good man. The kind of man that Clint admired, and yes, wanted a bit more than a little. A man who deserved not to be piled up under Barney's crazy, suicidal schemes.

"Anyway, Phil, while Alexi gets things done here I wanted to talk to you about the custom work you asked me for."

Phil wasn't fazed at all to find out that he had asked for custom work. Frowning, he put his hands in his pockets, a tell that meant nothing to Clint. "Good news, I hope?"

Clint tried not to burst out with "god you're fucking brilliant" but just shook his head instead. "No, unfortunately. If I can convince you that Alexi won't blow up your car, let's go to my office so I can show you the numbers and talk about options."

Phil paused for a long moment then nodded. Sighing inwardly in relief, Clint led him back to his office.

Phil stopped inside the door, closing it behind them, but his eyes were on Clint's display racks.

"Hawkeye?" Phil asked.

"You don't think I got that nickname as a joke, did ya?" Clint smiled, giving his girls his fondest grin. "Me and Barney, we were in the circus when we were kids. I learned to shoot there, had my own act for a while." Clint reached out to run his fingers over his favorite, an Olympic-style recurve in deep purple. "Still practice on the weekends, belong to the local bow club."

Phil looked over the varied collection with hungry eyes. Clint wondered if he ever shot bow and arrow. 

"Do you compete?"

"Kind of pointless, I win every time."

Phil gave him a bland, disbelieving look. Clint shrugged. "What part of 'circus act shooting impossible targets with a bow and arrow while swinging from a trapeze' did you miss?"

Phil gave him the polite shrug of the skeptics. Clint didn't care; he had won too much money from people who didn't believe he was the world's greatest marksman to get upset by yet another doubter. 

"You like variety. Recurve, primitive, even compound. That's surprising," Phil commented, revealing just how much he knew what he was talking about.

"I'm no purist. If it has tension and shoots arrows, I like it. My girl here, she's my best girl, but I like it all. Different styles keep me on my toes." Clint patted the recurve.

Phil nodded, moving close to inspect the primitives. 

"Look, Phil, we need to talk—" Before Clint finished, Phil had pushed Clint up against his desk. Clint gasped for a surprised breath of air. "What?"

"You're a damn tease, Barton, walking around half-dressed every time I show up," Phil said, fisting Clint's shirt in his hands. "I wondered when you would make a move." He leaned in and gave Clint a searing kiss. Phil's lips were soft as a woman's but the scruff of his 5 o'clock shadow scraped against Clint's skin with a flair of pleasure and pain, turning Clint on so hard and so fast he was dizzy with it. He clutched at Phil's waist, trying to sort himself out, but it was impossible with the solid weight of Phil pressing against him, holding him in place. Phil kissed just like Clint thought he would when he had allowed himself to dream about it: hard, deep, and passionate. His tongue flicked out to tap at Clint's, and Clint was gone, sucking Phil into his mouth. 

Finally Clint pushed Phil off of him, gasping for air. Phil's arms had wrapped around him, holding him close, but Phil loosened his hold enough for Clint to lean back. "Not that this isn't a fabulous idea, because it really, really is, but this isn't why I asked you to my office." He kept pushing at Phil's chest, which was probably the hardest thing he had ever done because all he wanted to do was tumble Phil to the floor and suck him off. Repeatedly, and preferably reciprocally. 

Phil followed his lead, although he did not look happy about it. "I did not misread this."

"No, you didn't, at least as far as that goes." Clint waved down at his hard-on. Phil looked down, then up, and gave Clint a filthy smile. Clint closed his eyes as lust rolled over him like a tidal wave. "Stop. I need you to listen."

Something about his tone of voice alerted Phil to the seriousness of it, and he stepped back completely. "Why?"

Clint rubbed his mouth for a second, trying to pull himself back from the edge. 

"Look, you don't know me, and you're one of Grigory's made men. So I'm perfectly aware that telling you this could be a death sentence for me. But I don't think so." He looked up at Phil, whose face had gone utterly blank. "Shit's going down. Soon. Barney's in on it, probably started it, knowing that stupid ass. Anyway, you're in the cross-hairs, and I like you, and if this all goes to hell I'm dead anyway." He crossed his arms and looked at the ceiling.

"Explain," Phil said, his voice soft but sharp, and Clint could hear the military training in the man at that moment. Nodding, Clint laid it all out, everything he had seen and figured out over the past two weeks. It was a huge risk but he was taking a leap of faith, which he hoped had more to do with being a good judge of character rather than just horny. 

"And you pieced this all together on your own?" Phil asked, his disbelief clear.

"I'm not stupid, and I know these people and I know how this shit works. I sure as fuck know my own brother. Now, you can call me crazy and ignore everything I just told you, and we can say goodbye now because within a month you'll be hung out to dry and definitely dead. Hell, if this backfires on Barney I'll probably be in the same cement pit with you. Ah, shit." Clint buried his face in his hands. "We need to get back out to your car." He stood up straight, but Phil was there, putting a hand on his shoulder. 

"I believe you. In fact what you just told me answers some questions we've had about what is going on."

Clint nodded. "I knew you're brilliant." He shut his mouth, blushing, but Phil smiled at him. 

"Takes one to know one, Barton." Phil squeezed his shoulder before letting go. "I have an important question to ask."

"Whether Natasha is in on it? I don't know. She's kept herself out of the social scene here."

Phil shook his head. "No, I know where she stands. What I need to know is if you trust me."

Clint stared at him for a long time, knowing that this was the moment of decision. It was as much about allegiances as it was about trust; Clint had not trusted Barney for years, but he was his brother and Clint had felt bound to him by blood. But it was obvious that, even though Barney might think he was protecting Clint by keeping him out of things, he was not doing what was right by Clint. Power hungry and greedy, Barney was trying to make good for himself no matter what the price.

Grigory was going down, taken out by the new international organization or by Barney's machinations if not both. That was not even in doubt by Clint anymore. Grigory's protection of Clint only extended as far as his life, for what it was worth. 

Phil was a stranger, unrelated and mostly unknown. He was no fool, though, and everything Clint had seen and heard about him convinced him that Phil was leagues beyond anything Barney could compete with. 

The only safe harbor was the strange one. 

"Yeah, I trust you."


	7. Chapter 7

Things started tumbling towards their conclusion, mostly out of sight but reverberating across the whole neighborhood. Some guys went missing, dead or on the run, and in a very surprising turn of events the FBI raided a warehouse where Grigory was known to stash various types of merchandise. The presence of the FBI really set everyone's nerves on edge, and even the guys in the shop were going around quiet and spooked. 

Barney drove by occasionally "for no reason," looking stressed out. Clint thought he should feel more grief over what was happening between them, but somehow he had always known that Barney would make a play like this. Barney looked up to Trickshot, even in the end, and it made sense that he was going to go out the same way. Clint was only grateful that he wasn't the trigger man for that one. He tried to warn Barney off, just once, practically begging him to leave town, but Barney called him paranoid and ruffled his hair as if they were both kids again. 

Clint was drifting and lonely, wondering if maybe he wasn't the one who should pack a bag and make a run for it. If things got as messy as he thought they were, no one would come looking for him because he was, in the grand scheme of things, nobody. 

It wasn't as if he hadn't stashed a few hundred grand secretly in a back account under another name years ago. No one could ever accuse Clint Barton of NOT being paranoid, and he decided long ago that running away to the circus with nothing but the clothes on his back was a one-time deal in his life. 

Phil came in a few days after their talk for a head light fixture change out. Clint didn't even strip down his coveralls for it, quickly switching the casing because he figured out a few months back to always have an extra of everything related to Phil's car on hand. 

Phil stood near the car but a few feet back. "I've thought about the customization work, and made some decisions on those options you showed me," he said. His voice was calm but just loud enough for Sammy to hear, one bay over. Clint nodded. 

"I'm done here, and if you want to talk about paying me money, I'm all yours. C'mon, I still have your folder on my desk." Clint looked across the shop. "Talking with McPherson in my office, Alexi. Hold things together for fifteen."

"Sure thing Boss!" Alexi yelled back.

"Don't break my shit!" Clint added as he led Phil into his office. Alexi laughed and swore at him in Russian and Clint made a show of slamming the door shut behind him.

He turned to Phil. "So what's new—ugh!" Clint was pushed up against the wall next to the door, the outdated wall calendar behind him taking the brunt of the damage as it tore loose. Phil's hands were locked on Clint's biceps as he pushed his whole body into Clint. Blinking rapidly, Clint looked directly into Phil's face, inches from his own. "Yeah?" He whispered, shocked and turned on, his hands stuttering at Phil's hips.

"Yeah." Phil nodded and closed the distance, kissing him soundly.

Clint fell into it. He had shut the door on that part of his sexuality a long time ago but it ran hot in his blood. The few guys who had tried for him had been local, unsubtle, and trashy. Clint didn't really think he deserved better than that, but he left that kind of slumming behind with the circus. Phil was sharp, though, the kind of man Clint admired in the issues of GQ that sometimes clients left behind in the waiting area. Phil wore a _suit_ to be the enforcer of crime lord, and he walked with a self-possessed assured attitude that Clint could imitate but never capture. He knew what this was, a quikie with the hot car mechanic—Clint watched porn too—but he was too into it to put the brakes on.

Clint ripped his mouth away when he heard someone drop a heavy tool out in the shop. He laughed softly. "Great timing."

Phil ignored him and pressed closer. "You were right about everything. It's going to go badly for Barney—you should warn him." Phil whispered into his ear, his breath hot and damp, as one hand trailed over his chest and started dragging the zipper of Clint's coveralls down. "You're fucking smart, Clint Barton, and I want you out of this alive."

Clint wondered why, but didn't ask. "Just a dumb ex-carny but trust me, I want to live through it. Do I have a chance?" He dragged his hands along Phil's belt until they were at the buckle, pulling it open. 

"Oh." Phil paused, pushing his hips forward hard before pulling back, and Clint bit down on a groan. "Yes. One way or another, I'll get you out." He pushed the coveralls down and Clint shook his arms free, putting himself back on the task of Phil's pants. Until Phil slid a hand into Clint's briefs, rubbing gently over his cock. Slack jawed, Clint looked up at Phil again, staring deep into determined eyes. Phil's expression was weirdly pleased, almost grinning despite the desperate hitch to his breathing, but his eyes were fierce and focused.

Clint licked his lips. "You're not in a position to promise that."

Phil nodded, as if in agreement. "But you don't know everything about me."

Clint registered that Phil's light brogue had vanished, and he took that for the message it was. "Yeah, okay, but right now there are other things you need to be getting out," Clint said through clinched teeth as Phil's hand wrapped around him, stroking. Phil laughed silently, closing it with a kiss. Clint fumbled but got back to Phil's trousers, yanking them open and shoving everything down Phil's thighs. Phil laughed into his mouth again.

"Kept thinking about this, Barton. Couldn't wait until extraction, couldn't wait, fuck, never going live this down," Phil gasped the words into Clint's mouth as he wrapped his hand around their cocks, together, holding them tight as he started pumping his hips. "You should leave. I can…can help you."

"Nuh. No. Gotta stay, leaving early will tip everyone's hands, get Barney killed. Alexi is Grigory's cousin, he a snitch, always was a plant." Clint panted, thrusting into Phil's hand, their cocks rubbing together hot and silky. "Fuck, Phil—"

"Shhhh," Phil pressed his mouth over Clint's again. Their kisses turning inelegant and raw as they met each other thrust for thrust, Phil's hand slick with sweat and pre-cum. Clint felt it slamming into him, his orgasm hitting like a freight train ramming his spine. He jerked with it, his head tipping back, exposing his neck as he ground out Phil's name in a harsh, desperate whisper while his come spilled out over Phil's hand and cock.

"Yes, so beautiful, yes, yes, oh!" Phil mouthed wetly against Clint's neck, not leaving a mark as he came hard, his hips slamming against Clint's. They held the position for a long moment as they both breathed in deeply. 

"Damn." Clint closed his eyes. Phil lifted his free arm to bracket it against the wall, closing himself over Clint's body. Clint sighed into the feeling of being protected, enjoying the moment even if he knew it was false. He'd take whatever Phil gave him, and that was a peculiar sort of pathetic that the Barton boys excelled at. He sighed. 

"You need to leave." Phil looked serious, worried for Clint, which was something new and weird and kind of sweet. Clint flipped him off. 

"Back at ya'." 

Phil laughed. He stepped back, inspecting the mess between them. Clint held up one finger and went over to a box on his desk. "Disposable shop rags. Never thought they'd be good for this, but hey." He came over and handed a few to Phil. They each cleaned up quickly, packing themselves up. Clint cracked the old window open a bit to let the room air out, although mostly he was the only one who ever set foot in his office. 

"So did you purposefully bang up your car just as an excuse to come bang me?" Clint smirked, trying to put some distance to his feelings.

"My plan was to warn you, tell you to leave. This was…a welcome distraction." Phil gave him a lopsided grin. 

"Things are what they are, Phil. I'm a gear head and you're an enforcer, and we both owe our souls to a twisted bastard of a Russian. Hell we don't even know each other that well." Clint sighed, checking himself as he zipped his coveralls up. He startled at the touch of Phil's hands on his face, pulling him close for a gentle kiss. 

"I have an instinct for these things. You said you trust me; hold to that, Barton." He pecked Clint on the lips again then turned and walked out.


	8. Chapter 8

Two weeks later Clint was working late in his office, alone. Business had taken a dive given the political pressures going on all around, and Clint was trying to figure out what he could siphon off into his secret account without arousing suspicion. He knew the shop's days were numbered, and his goal was to make sure his weren't numbered along with it. 

The office door was open, because the place was empty, or at least Clint thought it was until he looked up. 

"Holy FUCK! What are you doing?" He yelled at the red head. She looked at him pointedly and he sat back down, switching to Russian. "You are Phil's wife, yes? Look, this may sound like a great idea right now but it is not. Just turn around and walk out and it never happened."

She lifted her eyebrows and answered in perfect English. "You think I'm here to seduce you?"

Caught flat footed by that, Clint shrugged with one shoulder. It had happened before, because some girls loved trouble as much as their men did. Clint always turned them away, and had lucked out that none got hard feelings over it. 

"I need to know where your brother is."

"Fuck, lady, that's even a _worse_ idea. And I don't know, anyway." 

She stepped into the room and the atmosphere changed. She moved with a quiet grace that he'd never seen on her before, and her whole attitude was full of controlled fury. Suddenly, she was _dangerous_ and Clint stood up slowly, his hands out. "Whoa, whoa, let's talk." 

"Where is Barney Barton?"

"If he's not at his house, then I honestly don't know. I'm not his keeper and he's not mine, at least not since I turned fifteen."

She frowned, but there was more frustration there than anger. She looked up Clint for a long moment, seeming to weigh his character in her eyes. Finally her shoulders dropped, and while Clint figured out that nothing she did wasn't premeditated it was still a sign of trust. 

"He grabbed Phil."

"Phil's not his type…wait, what?" Clint derailed. "Why? What the hell is going on?"

"According to Phil, you know exactly what is going on." She folded her arms and glared at him.

"Generally speaking. Phil's supposed to take the fall for the change of command. Whether that means setting him up for murder or what, I don't know, but kidnapping him doesn't seem to fall into that."

She ground her teeth for a second. "Things didn't go as planned. AIM is out for Grigory, Grigory is out for blood, and Barney thinks he can save his skin by trading Phil in to Grigory."

"That would only work if you guys work for AIM, if I'm reading this right. Whoever they are. The overseas connection, I take it?"

She seemed to be surprised by that, then grinned. "So Phil wasn't just besotted. You are smart."

Clint ignored that. "Both of you?"

She nodded. 

Clint sighed. "Damnit. Right under Grigory's nose. That wasn't too smart, lady."

"Natasha."

"Your real name?" 

"It is," she said, nodding once. 

Clint paused, looking over at his cluttered desk. This was the moment he had expected and dreaded, the point in time when he would—once again—have to walk away from everything he had worked so hard to build. He would miss the shop, the guys, and everything he had built there. It had been a lonely life sometimes, and Clint thought longingly of Phil, realizing that if Phil worked for an _international_ organized crime syndicate then chances were good that he'd never see Phil again anyway. 

But this was what the spare bank account was for, and the complete alias waiting for him in a duffle bag in a rented locker at a boxing gym he never visited on the other side of town. Clint was not born to have a settled life, or a real home, and he knew that. 

"I honestly don't know where Phil is, but I know Barney's habits and bolt-holes. Give me a second." He stepped out of his coveralls and pulled out his spare jeans, throwing a heavy sleeveless shirt on over his tank top. He walked over to his girls and touched each one in goodbye, before strapping on his wrist and finger guards and picking up his beautiful purple recurve. He checked his assortment of arrows – some old fashioned wooden ones with flint arrowheads which he had made himself and the rest the high-tech carbon fiber beauties he spent far too much money on. He put on a heavy leather jacket, shouldered the quiver and finally turned around. "I'm ready."

Natasha gave his bow a very doubtful look, but didn't argue. 

She was driving a car Clint did not recognize, a non-descript sedan that could fit in anywhere. The first two places they checked were dead ends, but when they hit the industrial park on the south side of town, Clint got goosebumps. There were cars staggered around sparsely, parked to look inconspicuous even though they were patently out of place. "This is it. Don't know which warehouse, though,"

"I'm parking here," Natasha said, killing the engine as she glided in to hide behind a dumpster. "Stay, and be quiet." She didn't even wait for Clint to agree, just quietly slipped out of the car. A second later, it was if she didn't exist at all as she slipped into the dark. 

Clint gave her _five whole seconds_ before ditching his jacket, grabbing his gear and following. 

He managed to stay close enough to see Natasha disappear into a building through a small, high open window with a move that looked more like ballet than gymnastics, and she earned Clint's respect for that alone. He decided to go top side, and while his own gymnastics skill set was rusty, his body remembered knew what to do. Crawling in through a vent grate near the roof line, Clint resettled his bow on his back with his quiver and walked the metal beams of the roof until he got where he needed to be. 

Which was right over Phil, who was tied to a chair with a gag in his mouth. Even in his trussed-up state, he looked more annoyed than worried.

Barney stood next to the chair, jittery and probably high as a kite. He had a gun in hand but nobody was pointing their weapons at that stage. Clint could not hear what was going on, but there was Grigory and four of his goons on one side, Barney and some other guy whose name Clint couldn't remember on the other. Clint watched for a second, trying to figure out who the most dangerous person in the room was. Then he saw Natasha creeping up some boxes back around Barney's position.

She stopped and looked directly up at Clint. It was eerie the way she pin-pointed his location, but Clint had no time to be spooked so he simply gave her a small salute with his bow. She rolled her eyes and then went back to sneaking around. 

When it happened, it was like a bomb going off. Grigory raised his hand, a mocking look on his face, and his goons brought up their weapons. Only in that moment did Barney realize that he had set himself up to be taken out with Phil, and he started yelling before turning to run out. 

Clint fired three arrows before anyone could pull the trigger. Grigory and the two to his left dropped dead. Clint managed to take out the third goon easily given the fact that the guy had turned to shoot up in Clint's direction, making him a broad and easy target. The fourth one gasped before he fell over, a knife sticking out of his chest coming from Natasha's direction. Barney's companion was already face down, blood spreading wide and dark from his neck. It all happened so quickly that Clint kept sweeping the place with his bow, an arrow notched, but everyone was dead except Phil and Barney. Natasha was undoing Phil's bonds, and Barney was simply gone. 

Long gone, if Clint knew him, because he was pretty sure he wasn't the only one who had kept a backup plan in place. He sat on the cross beam, trying to reconcile what was below him with the knowledge that he was never going to see Barney again. He took a few deep breaths before resettling his bow and then went back out the way he had come in. He stood outside the warehouse for a moment, thinking of Phil, wondering who exactly Natasha was, and what they were doing. He wondered for a brief moment if Phil had been telling the truth, and if he really believed he could pull Clint out of this mess.

But he knew better. He knew there was no one to offer him sanctuary after putting an arrow into Grigory, and everyone who was anyone knew Clint's history and the rack of bows in his office. The line of arrows from Trickshot to Grigory to Clint was a fucking neon sign. Nothing and no place was safe. Worst of all plans was to run into the arms of an international crime syndicate's hit man in the hopes that the guy wouldn't just shoot Clint and take credit for cleaning the whole mess up.

Clint ran for one of the (now) abandoned cars. Even modern cars and their many electronic protections were not safe from Clint's experienced fingers and skills, and he was flying out of the industrial park within five minutes, headed for his locker and then, possibly, some big city to get lost in.

Maybe New York.


	9. Two Years Later

Francis (Frank) Booker had a reputation. It was a good one, in the right circles, and while it kept him on the road more often than not it paid really fucking well. Money could buy you anything, and for the right price, Frank Booker could take care of problems no one else was able to solve. 

Which was how, against all fucking odds in the world, he came to be standing in fucking _Iron Man's_ garage. With Iron Man. Who had just kidnapped him. 

"You kidnapped me!"

"You're Frank Booker, the Car Guy, right?" Iron Man stomped around the garage.

"I was fucking _asleep_ you asshole!"

"Yeah, sorry about that. Look, can you help or not?"

"What the hell are you talking about?" Frank kept yelling, because it seemed to have some effect on the big lunking metal guy. 

"The car! The car!" Iron Man yelled back. 

"You're Tony Fucking Stark! Fix your own goddamn car!"

"I can't get the parts! How's it supposed to be original if I have to machine half the damn thing myself?" Stark flipped the face plate up. "You're the ' _Car Guy_ '." The finger quotes looked ridiculous when done by huge metal hands. "A friend of a friend told Happy—my driver—who told me: you can get the parts. Any part. Even, and especially even, if they are not for sale. And I need these parts."

"Seriously? Tony Stark wants me to steal the car parts he can't buy?"

"Yes! Exactly! Finally we are on the same page. Here's the car—"

"Whoa there. It's not like…holy fuck, that's a Super Bee 426." Frank stopped in front of the violently purple muscle car, a Dodge rarity from 1968.

Stark grinned. "Hemi."

"Oh holy fuck." Frank sat on his ass and the floor, uncaring of dignity. "No. Impossible. All 125 are accounted for."

"No, they aren't. The one everyone thinks is #98 is a composite. THIS is the body, frame and most of the engine for #98. But it won't _be_ #98 until I get the rest of it."

"Let me guess: the asshole who has them can't sell them to you without revealing his own fraud, and you won't sell to him."

"Bingo." Stark looked really pleased by that. 

"Fuck." Frank stood up, shaking his head. This was a bad idea all the way around, and that was saying something when Tony Stark was willing to foot the bill. 

Stark sighed heavily. "Look, I'm a damn superhero. I can't go steal the parts myself. The organization I don't actually work for kind of frowns on that shit anyway, and my so-called 'handler' would taze me and spend the week watching _Supernanny_ while I drool on the carpet. Direct quote, by the way."

"Hey, I like _Supernanny_."

"Jesus, don't be such a freak. Can you do the job?"

"Sure." Frank shrugged. "It's not the job that bothers me, it's the fallout."

"What fallout? You steal the fake, strip the parts I need, deliver the goods and get paid three times their street value."

"Five times their value as appraised by my guy at Sotheby's, motherfucker."

"What? Highway robbery!"

"You're a billionaire. Bite me."

Stark shrugged. "Fine. What's the fallout you're worried about?"

"This is a high-profile job. People would find out. People would _know_ and I don't need that kind of attention."

"Seriously? That's it? Consider it taken care of. Part of the deal: I'll strip your history."

Frank blinked. "What?"

"You want a fresh start? Take the money from this job and retire? Give me a ten percent discount, and I'll throw in wiping your existence off the face the earth."

"It's not this existence I'm really worried about," Frank hedged, but Stark was as smart as the tabloids claimed he wasn't. 

"Gotcha. Alias of an alias. Whatever, just give me the identity you want gone and it's done."

"How?"

"What is this, a fucking job interview? Look, trust me, it will be _gone_ —birth certificate, tax records, arrest records, speeding tickets, library fines. Gone. So take the damn deal before I ask for 15% off."

Frank knew that even with a 15% discount, the money from the job would get him a nice piece of beach in Thailand, while the rest of his money stashed in off-shore accounts would set him up for life as a beach bum with no history and nothing to run from ever again. Clint Barton stuck out his hand and took the deal.


	10. Chapter 10

It was tragically, laughably easy to pull the job off. The rich Bahrainian competition who owned the car kept it on his private island off Miami. Getting the car off the island was impossible, but getting the parts off after stripping them in the dead of night once the massive garage's security system was disabled was a piece of cake. All the security was mainly to keep the wives and kids from being kidnapped, so no one bothered to inspect the small service craft hauling trash off the island as it always did every morning at seven a.m. 

Clint showed up in Stark's garage five days later, every item tagged by his Sotheby's contact with a label validating its authenticity and current estimated value. Clint had kept the job close to his chest, ignoring his usual list of contacts, going out of his way to keep his fingerprints off the deal and doing everything but the appraisal himself. 

"I'll be damned," Stark said wonderingly, looking through the shipping crates. "You're good."

"Am I really the one who is going to explain to you that you get what you pay for?"

"No, my dad took care of that. Just…you don't look like much."

"Fuck you, Stark."

"Feel the love, honey, I just transferred the funds to your account." Tony punched at his phone with a flourish. "And one Clinton Francis Barton just disappeared." Tony smiled at him, his smug pleasure infectious. "Mind you, his file showed up in some interesting places."

FBI and InterPol were on the short list that Clint guessed, and kind of felt bad at giving Stark only 15% off the deal. "Thanks, man, I—"

"TONY!" A tall, gorgeous red head stomped into the garage. "What is this? Did you buy another car? In pieces?" She was all but shrieking. Clint shuffled backwards a little, but she had her sight set on Stark and ignored him. "I can't believe you!" 

"Pepper, love of my life! What brings you to the garage, which you hate?"

"You, Tony Stark. I knew you were up to something. And!" She waved her phone at him. "You just transferred over seven hundred thousand dollars to a Swiss bank account!"

Tony actually paled a little, but held his ground, opening his mouth to answer.

"Yes, I'd like to know what exactly is going on with those funds, and what they might have to do with a certain Bahrainian businessman insisting that the FBI investigate the theft of car parts from his private island," Phil McPherson said, stepping out from an elevator that Clint had not even known existed. 

Clint cringed, trying to make himself smaller, but it didn't work. Phil's eyes shot right to him, and then widened in shock. "Clint?"

"He's Frank, actually. There is no Clint," Tony said, speaking like a school teacher. "And _Frank_ is just a friend. A fellow car enthusiast. So whatever you are thinking, Agent, you can just—"

"Agent?" Clint straightened up. "What?"

"Phil?" Pepper turned to Phil, but he ignored her to keep staring at Clint.

"We looked for you," Phil said simply, and Clint's world tumbled apart on the slightly hurt tone of voice of the man he had tried desperately to forget. 

"I couldn't stay. You know that." Clint folded his arms and looked away. 

"I told you to trust me."

"Trust the fucking enforcer for AIM?"

"AIM? What the hell?" Tony stepped into the conversation physically, glaring at Phil. "No really: what the hell?" 

Clint smirked. "Oh sorry, did I blow your cover, _agent_?" 

He pulled out a gun and aimed it at Clint. "I guess I knew we were never going to resolve this the easy way."

"What the fuck? Coulson, what the hell are you doing?" Tony looked between them in shock. 

"Hey!" Pepper's voice shot up, freezing all three men in place. She turned to Phil. "You are not shooting anyone in our garage! If I have to call the biohazard cleanup team in then I _will_ take it out of your wardrobe budget!" 

"What's it with you and redheads?" Clint shook his head. 

"She's mine, just so we're clear," Stark said, then stepped backwards at the look she threw him.

"I'm taking you in, Clint Barton. For questioning. You argue with me, you even twitch, and I will shoot out the elbow in your right arm." Phil's expression was blank. Clint reflexively tucked his shooting arm closer to his body. 

"Wait, you’re a fed?" Clint shouted. "I thought you worked for AIM!" 

Phil didn't waver. "Natasha made a mistake, letting you believe that." He shrugged. "She doesn't make mistakes very often," he added with a sad smile. 

"Fuck you, Phil. I did what I had to do. Now it's your turn." Clint turned to walk out, furious and betrayed and relieved. Whatever happened, his money was waiting for him and chances were good that Phil wasn't going to be sent to kill him. It wasn't much to rest his hat on but Clint was willing to take what he could get, and he had always known that he would never get Phil. 

"Have it your way, Barton," Phil said, and a chill of disbelief ran down Clint's spine but he wasn't fast enough; he knew there was no way to outrun what was coming. 

The blast from the gun nearly blew out Clint's ears, but he fell over because of the brand new hole in his leg. He passed out listening to Stark's girlfriend yelling about blood stains on concrete.


	11. Chapter 11

Natasha was sitting in the chair next to his bed when Clint woke up. He looked at her and she looked at him and neither one of them spoke for a while. She finally got up and fed him some water through a straw. 

"We're not with AIM, or any crime syndicate." She spoke plainly without looking at him.

"Got that," Clint croaked out, nodding. She gave him some more water. 

"Pretty ballsy cover you made for yourself," she said in Russian. "Francis Booker had been active on the east coast for years before Clint Barton disappeared. We never linked the two."

It had been a couple of years since he had spent much time speaking in Russian, so Clint had to think about it before he answered. "I always took my vacations to shore up Booker's identity. It worked, yes?"

She nodded gravely. "You have skills."

"For all the good it does me. I am restrained to a medical bed in a government facility." He jangled his wrists, which were tied to the frame. He switched to English in surprise. "Hey, Phil didn't shoot my arm."

She frowned at him.

"He threatened to shoot my arm. Is his aim just that bad?" Clint fell back against the mattress, the drugs keeping him fuzzy headed and lazy. 

"He must really like you," she said in Russian before walking out, her smile small and cruel. 

"See ya'!" Clint tried to yell after her, but it came out sounding more like a bull frog in heat. 

And then he was alone.

He stayed that way for two days. Aside from the nurses, who all seemed unusually skilled in hand-to-hand combat, Clint didn't see anyone. He didn't get his hands out of the restraints either, unless they were doing something painful to his leg like changing bandages. On the up side, they continued giving him the really good drugs for most of those two days. 

The shot Phil took was a through-and-through on Clint's lower thigh but he had missed the artery, so Clint reassessed Phil's aim. Nothing about Phil struck Clint as someone who relied on luck, so the shot had been deliberately non-fatal and designed for minimal damage. For a gunshot wound. Which in and of itself kind of pissed Clint off. 

He finally got released into a wheelchair and the stern displeasure of a suit named Agent Sitwell, who was very visibly heavily armed. He walked next to the chair while a beefy maybe-nurse pushed Clint down the beige, unmarked hallways. "You give me any shit, Barton, and I'll throw you so far down the hole you'll forget what the sun looks like."

"Sweet talker."

"Shut up."

"Where am I going?"

"Did you miss the part where you're under fucking arrest? And where I told you to shut up?"

"Did you miss the part where not a damn one of you actually arrested me or read me my rights?"

"This isn't the NYPD, kid."

"My point stands, ass wipe."

"Not my fault you passed out like a virgin after getting shot. You must have missed the Miranda reading."

"Bullshit."

"Welcome home, sweet heart," Sitwell smirked as the "nurse" pushed Clint out of the chair and onto a small bunk set against the wall in a small, small cell. Clint hissed in pain but didn't bitch about it, because he could mouth off as much as he liked but chances were he had just found his new forever home and they all knew it. Clint glared at them as they left, for the good it did him.


	12. Chapter 12

He mostly slept for the next couple of days, helped by the pain meds they gave him. The only interruptions were for meals and an actual physical therapist who unmercifully worked on his leg while a guard in full tac gear and holding a semi-automatic rifle stood next to the bed, which only made Clint feel smug. Finally, though, Sitwell came and got him again. 

"I don't need the wheelchair anymore," Clint snarled, standing crookedly because his leg did hurt, even if he could get around on it. 

"Bullshit. And also, we're going across the whole damn building. If you fall down I'm leaving you where you land and letting people step on you."

Clint got in the chair and this time, Sitwell pushed the chair himself. There were no other guards. An elevator ride and endless hallways later, they were at another unmarked door. Sitwell knocked. When the door slid open, he shoved Clint through it into the office beyond then left.

Phil looked up from his paperwork as Clint's chair rolled to a stop. "Recovering?"

"Who _are_ you people?" Clint locked the chair, pulled himself up out of it and then collapsed into one of the nice upholstered chairs facing the desk. 

"The question is, who are you?" Phil picked up a folder, thick and worn. "This? This is the hard copy print out of your file that I started two years ago."

Clint's gut dropped but he tried not to show any reaction.

Phil put the folder down. "Oddly enough, when I went to check on your file in our records the other day, there was nothing there." He focused on Clint. "In fact, there was nothing, anywhere. Not in our database, not in the IRS database, not in local business records for the city you owned a garage in. Not anywhere. Clint Barton had ceased to exist. The only proof I have of who you are is here, in this file I started putting together for my own reference two years ago and keep locked in my desk. I'm quite certain that if I had not done so, then every single piece of identifying information about you would be gone."

"Weird, huh?" Clint settled back, folding his hands across his stomach and giving Phil a self-confidant smirk that Clint did not feel at all. 

"Very weird. In fact, outright bizarre. Impossible, even." Phil tapped the folder with his fingers. "There are only three people who have the skill set to make that happen, and you, Clint Francis Barton, are not on that list."

"Hmmm." Clint nodded.

Phil stared at him and Clint tried to keep staring back. Finally Phil sighed. "Tony bargained a discount for services rendered in exchange for deleting you, didn't he?"

"You should probably ask him that." 

"I have. He's oddly protective of you, and somewhat obsessed with putting that car back together."

"Don't know what you want me to say, then. _Phil._ "

That stopped Phil for a second. "That is my name, actually. Phil Coulson. Agent Phil Coulson."

Clint nodded again, letting the silence sit between them for a moment. "So tell me, _Phil_ , why you give a fuck. Huh? Why? A garage mechanic on the run from the Russian mob: I had a short shelf life. AIM or Fed, you weren't going to get much of a return on me." He paused, leaning back in his chair to set his target. "The sex wasn't that good." 

Phil didn't even blink, or blush, or twitch. "I'm not sure we could describe that as sex, technically."

Clint sat forward. "Why the hell am I here?"

Phil calmly opened the file, looking it over. He held up a small piece of paper, faded purple with crude art on it. "Hawkeye, the Amazing Boy Wonder," Phil said, then put it down. 

"How the hell did you find one of those old fliers?" Clint asked, although he had meant to demand access to a taxi or something. He snapped his mouth shut. 

Phil flipped through more paper, including what Clint thought was his old mug shot from when he was 15 and got hauled in for graffiti (he'd actually been lookout while Barney stripped a Mercedes, but he played innocent, scared kid until Barney picked up the next morning). Finally Phil looked up at him. "Honestly? I was putting this all together in order to suggest to my boss that we recruit you. If you were still alive, which I was beginning to doubt." Phil frowned, and he looked so sincere that Clint actually felt like an asshole.

"I had to run. You _know_ that." He slumped down in the chair again, crossing his arms.

"Given what Natasha led you to believe, yes, I do know that. I was not expecting you to run quite so…effectively." He chose the word with obvious care. 

Clint drummed his fingers on his bicep for a moment. "She really your wife?"

"Who?" 

"Natasha. Is she your wife?"

"I'm gay, Clint. That was just a cover." Phil sighed and closed the folder, staring at it for a long time. "You impressed me. Your history of killing Trickshot was legend among Grigory's men, so overblown that I didn't even believe it until I saw your collection of bows at the shop; but instead of following that up with a career as an assassin-for-hire you opened an auto garage which turned a profit its first year. You nailed the AIM operation just by watching traffic and listening to gossip. You saved my life with a paleolithic weapon making shots that should have been nearly impossible, given factors of where you were and how fast you shot; and that was after gaining access to the building without alerting anyone, including me. Then you completely fell off the face of the earth." Phil finally looked up at him again. "You're good at what you do, no matter what you decide to do. That's a skill set we could use."

Clint chewed on that for a moment. "So, nothing personal is what you're saying?"

"Absolutely." Phil nodded, cool and professional.

"You _shot_ me, asshole." Clint pulled himself up and slammed his fist onto the desk, leaning over it. "That's personal. You could have had me trailed out of Stark tower. You know who Francis Booker is now, and you found a fucking circus flier from when I was twelve years old so don't tell me you don't already have the numbers for my primary Swiss bank account. But you pulled the fucking trigger and took me down." Clint pushed himself until he was inches from Phil's face. "Maybe the sex _was_ that damn good." He smirked. 

Phil flicked a hand as if dismissing the accusation, his eyes darting the same direction. Clint realized he was still off his game because he followed the motion like a trained monkey, but that realization was not fast enough to stop Phil from using his other hand to pull Clint off balance and flip him over the desk. Clint twisted as he went down with all the paperwork and half the crap on the desk so that he landed on his undamaged leg, but the impact still jarred his injury. He bit down on a yelp, going limp as Phil rolled him onto his stomach because getting even more injured was not on his agenda. He was pretty sure Phil wasn't going to kill him. 

"You're getting on my last nerve, Barton." Phil sat on his hips, twisting one arm sharply up behind him and pressing the heel of his palm into Clint's other shoulder, pinning him to the floor.

"Asshole." Clint snapped back, because it was pretty much all he had left. 

"Clint Barton doesn't exist, you took care of that on your own; Francis Booker is being held indefinitely in a six by eight cell by a quasi-government agency that most people don't think actually exists. Your accounts were seized three days ago. Thank you for your donation." Phil twisted Clint's arm hard enough to twinge the elbow but not break it. "I'm giving you a chance, here. Don't blow it."

"Do I have to blow you? Is that what this about? You want some fucking 'appreciation' for a job well done?" Clint tried squirming but his injury screamed at him so he stopped. 

Phil went still behind him. "No."

"Seems that way to me. You've ruined my fucking life here twice, pal, so if you want gratitude then go to hell."

Phil let go of Clint's arm but kept his other hand pressed against his shoulder. "You didn't have to warn me about Barney's plans, or AIM. I'm grateful for that, it saved us a hell of a lot of trouble and possibly a few lives. I don't need your gratitude; I'm trying to pay you back."

"Again, nothing personal?" Clint laughed, the sound cold even to him. Phil let go of his shoulder and Clint rotated onto his back, still straddled by Phil who had sat back on his heels, his expression blank. 

They stared at each other for a moment before Phil spoke. "It's definitely personal." He broke, his expression slumping into a tired, frustrated grimace. He rubbed his mouth, then tipped off his heels to gracefully roll to the side, off of Clint, and sat there with his legs crossed. "Is that what you wanted to know?"

Clint took a moment to gingerly pull himself up so he was sitting with his back to the desk, his injured leg sprawled out between them. "Yeah, I guess."

Phil glanced up at him. "You guess?"

Clint closed his eyes and tipped his head back to thump against the desk. "You said it: I've got nothing left. I can't be Clint Barton, and Francis Booker has a long life ahead of him as a 'detainee.' I'd escape, eventually, but what then? Start all over? Why? For who? Barney's off the radar if he isn't dead, and I've looked. My plan was to go to Thailand, adopt some kids or something. Do something good for a fucking change. Start an orphanage, I don't know. I can't do that, you probably bought a fucking helicopter with my retirement." He sighed, but did not hear Phil moving. "All for god damn nothing."

"It was never going to happen that way," Phil said, and his voice sounded genuinely regretful. Clint looked over at him. 

"Why?"

"AIM is still looking for you, as well. We know they put feelers out for Clint Barton, and trust me, you might think you can disappear in a tropical paradise and start an orphanage and learn how to surf, but they would find you."

"The only reason you found me was because I made a stupid decision to take a job for Tony Stark."

"Admittedly, that was a stupid decision. But eventually, someone would have stumbled over you. It just happened to be me." Phil leaned forward, putting one hand on the floor between them, moving very slowly as he brought his other hand up to cup Clint's face. "So make a better one this time: don't run, and work for us. You can do good work here. You can still make a difference. With me."

Clint held still while Phil kept coming closer until their lips were touching. Clint's heart stopped for a moment, the twisting feeling in his gut disappearing as his breath left him. He brought his hands up and grabbed at Phil's suit, dragging him closer until he was straddling Clint again, practically sitting his lap but holding himself up off of Clint's legs. Their kissed deepened when Clint tipped his head and opened his mouth, Phil pushing into it with tongue and air and strength.  
Clint pulled back for breath. "You don't know me."

"I trust you," Phil answered quietly, moving his hands to frame Clint's face.

Clint's stomach twisted up again, but this time with a feeling he barely remembered. He thought of that day long ago when Trickshot gave him $25 and Barney told him 'good job' and he shuddered, his emotions tumbling through need and want and fear and desperation. He closed his eyes as Phil's lips moved over his cheek, down along his jaw. Taking a deep breath, he shook his head, forcing Phil back. 

"You shouldn't—"

"I trust you," Phil repeated, holding Clint's face tightly in his hands so that Clint could not even move. It didn't feel dangerous, or risky; Clint felt the warm wash of safety flood him, that ephemeral holy grail of being in the right place, for the right reasons, for the right person. Hope warred with his fear, the thought that Phil would throw him aside as easily as Barney had bubbling up into his consciousness. 

Phil tilted his head, studying Clint. "Trust me. I looked for you then and later, I _looked_ for you and I would never have stopped until I found you. I will always come for you, I will never leave you behind. Not willingly."

Clint nodded, words fleeing him for a moment. Phil kissed him again and they breathed for each other for a while. 

Phil smiled at him, his hand running up and down Clint's side under his shirt. "I'm making a call on this that other people disagree with, but I'm not wrong."

Clint smirked again. "So the sex really was that good, huh?"

"Shut up." Phil leaned down and took Clint's mouth with his, demanding and controlling, and Clint reached up to meet him. 

##END##

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hmmm, does this need an epilogue? I dunno, I think it's clear what decision Clint makes but eh, let me know. <3


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